


The Only Way To Go

by billspilledquill



Category: Catch Me If You Can (2002)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I was angry at the number of fics in this fandom so i wrote one, M/M, Panic Attacks, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: You see, when you play around the facts too much, there will soon be not an objective truth to believe in. And when you have no idea what you were doing, you will eventually end up panicking in the bathroom because you have made a huge mistake and then an inspector will be outside ready to catch you.Or, million times where Frank used his name wrong, and one time he used it right.





	The Only Way To Go

**Author's Note:**

> Not really proud of this, but I put a lot of time in it, so I still hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> 1) Smash-up of the musical/movie, since the book sucked. 
> 
> 2) Sixteen years too late, I know, I know.

 

 

The first time he was Taylor, he was seven.

He looked at the A on his school paper about spiders, _wonderful work Taylor! Keep it up! :)_ the name _Taylor_ was later crossed with red pen, _don’t lie about your name, Frank! See me after class._

It wasn’t a big deal, really. But after that he thought his parents never trusted him again.

He never fully comprehend his goal at lying about himself — he searched through his exams, _Taylor Abagnale Jr_ — no one exactly cared, even his childhood pals called him Taylor, his christian name wasn’t really in any use except his parents, and he was okay with it.

“Present yourself, mister Abagnale,” the teacher asked on his first day of class, all eyes fixed on him, well.

“Like what?” He said innocently.

“Your name, your passions, your favorite subject,”she smiled, oh god do teachers scared him when they smile, “whatever that comes out of your head.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I like math and my passion is professing my love for dead philosophers rambling about death and republicanism.”

This earned a chuckle from the class, the teacher pressed on, “What about your name?”

“Taylor Abagnale Jr,” he grinned, “Frank is my middle name.”

 

 

 

Later, when a girl came up to him with _The Social Contract_ in her hand with eager eyes, he merely smiled apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” he said, showing _The Flash_ in his, “I think you are mistaken. I am Steven, you must want to talk with my brother, for we are much alike physically.”

She turned to leave when he caught her by the wrist, “But sure you are free for a dinner, mademoiselle?”

She blushed, and voila. No one really cared about him, and he secretly thanked his parents for not naming him Earnest, because _holy shit why would Oscar Wilde holding a grudge to a guy born decades after his death?_

He tried his best to smile like a Steven would.

“How about Saturday?”

 

 

 

The first time his parents really grounded him for being Taylor, though, he was thirteen.

“Son,” his father sighed quietly — everything about him was so quiet — “we need to talk about this.”

“What?” He laughed, looking at his teacher’s letters on the table, along with the director’s, with fancy stamps and all, private school and their rich garments.

“You are a smart kid, Frank,” he said, “why are you so obsessed at being Taylor? Does the name appeal to you? Why would—“

“I call myself Steven too,” he interrupted, “or Alex, or John. But I don’t use John much because it is just so lame, I mean, dad, no one ever make friends with a John. It’s like a non-spoken rule, no one ever dates a John.”

“We are worried about you, Frankie,” her mother frowned, but her hands were securely on his father’s, good, “We talked to a psychiatrist, and she said it may be a problem of anxiety or identity issue. Do you have any of it, Frank? Don’t worry Frank, we will help you through this, we will—“

“Oh ma!” He hugged her, laughing, “there’s nothing wrong in me, I swear! I just have those weird identity theft fetish, don’t you worry,” he said, “and who knows, maybe your son would be an awesome FBI agent, right?”

His father snort, “You see, darling, he’s quite alright,” he said, “though I would hardly say that tearing off labels off some bottles and identity fraud could be considered investigating.”

“I hate numbers, pa,” he simply answered, “I hate labels on wine bottle, like, I can look at the quality of it through the glass, thank you very much. All you do is blocking me the view with bullshit promises and shitty ingredients that we all know is not raisins.”

“Language son,” he barked a laugh, “you have always hated math, “ he said, “I know that for a fact.”

 

 

 

 

The thing was, facts needed not to apply to him.

Because his hair could be black, blond or hell, even blue, and he could be Steven or Taylor or Alex, he could be having an affinity for bats or English economists, he could all of this at once, there was no facts more accurate about him, because he invented him. No one else can prove it otherwise.

Still, when the divorce paper lied down on the hard-edged table, he just stared. No facts can be stated, so he braced himself for them to hit him. He never liked things that came outside of his head.

“You just need to write a name, “ the lawyer said, “it can cost a lot, people fighting over their children.”

 _Okay_ , his breath hitched, _okay_. He looked at his parents, wide eyed. They looked away, not willing to fight over him. Not wiling to take him. _Okay_.

He struggled a bit, but managed to stand. His eyes wavered.

He wondered what Taylor would do, probably screaming over them because what the hell you guys so in love there’s no w— oh.

Then the Frank inside of him finally broke through, and whispered, _your fault_. Then, _if their love can fade away then so can you_. Then, _they will love each other more once you are gone_. And then, _run_.

 _Okay_ , he thought, _okay_ , and he did.

 

 

 

  
You see, when you play around the facts too much, there will soon be not an objective truth to believe in. And when he have no idea what he was doing, you will eventually end up panicking in the bathroom because you have made a huge mistake and then an inspector was outside ready to catch you.

(And also for other reasons, but others were more self-exploratory.)

“I know you are here,” the inspector banged on the bathroom door, the sound of shower filling his ears, loud, “come out!”

So he came out, and in a flicker of second the gun was raised to his head.

And so he did what every sane person would do when they face threat of death, he looked at the officer in the eye and gave him a wink. Lovely.

The inspector seemed surprised — not like the _wow thank you for the birthday surprise_ surprised, more like _shit this guy is stupid and dangerous and I will shoot you if you speak a word_ surprised — then proceed to clench his gun tighter.

 _Fuck_.

“Hands above your head!”

A tough guy, he smirked, ignoring the tight knot in his stomach and the _this guy sure has pretty eyes_ radar flashing red. He can deal with that. He eyed the gun and cringed.

He was not sure about this, though.

 

 

 

 

“Have you ever wondered why I call you?” He asked stupidly, because the last time he hanged up was because of this. There was no time to stop the words to blurt out, well, at least embarrassment is (almost) better than a gun bullet in your chest, he reasoned.

Carl barked a laugh, “The last time I told you and you just slammed the phone on my face. Don’t want to hurt your frail heart, kid.”

He tightened his hold of his phone, because it wasn’t fair, “I am twenty-one—“

“Almost,” the muffled voice interrupted, “your birthday is one month after, kid.”

He swallowed, “You sure are a responsible and professional inspector, Carl.”

He can hear his eyes rolling through the phone, “Of course I am, kid, that’s why you are going to jail soon after.”

 _I wait with bated breath_ , were words he didn’t bring himself to utter, what came instead was a series of halfhearted insults and that was that.

 _That’s enough_ , he thought, _if I can forge checks, I can forge anything. Lies aren't lies when you believe them._

 

 

 

 

“Carl?”

“Hey, kid,” the man responded, surprisingly sincere, “happy birthday.”

He hanged up the phone almost in panic. It fell and crashed on the floor in pieces.

 

 

 

 

Meeting Brenda was a surprise.

He didn’t really think it was his doing that she fell in love with him, she choose it. Fairly easy if they were both a lawyer and a doctor (and a Lutheran, for that matter), he thought.

So when she looked at him with her big frightened eyes when he finally told her everything that was wrong about him, he wasn’t really surprised neither.

“You love me right?” He uttered out just before his escape, with a voice pitifully anxious, “Brenda, you will love me no matter what, right?”

If it was a movie, he would have his popcorn in his hand, eating. Just eating. Thinking it was just another soap opera about a man with some abandonment issues with a girl too stupid and insecure to realize it, thinking about nothing and eating. The popcorn was yellow. Eyes fixed on the screen. The pictures were black and white. He waited.

A second too late she replied, “Of course, Frank.”

He nodded in ecstasy, kissed her and left. He breathed, yellow, screen, black, white — _wait_.

He didn’t ask her which Frank she was referring to.

 

 

 

 

It’s the clothes that make the man, his father taught him. So he only wore a t-shirt and shinny jeans when he walked on the streets of Montrichard. He gave some winks to some french girls and a cute barista — he looked at his tag - _John_ \- he averted his eyes and sipped his drink, remembering something a long long time ago.

 

 

 

 

“Carl, tell me,” he asked in his fifteen-years-old-student voice, “where the ducks go when the pond freezes over?”

“Cut this crap kid,” was the answer, “I am not going to quote _Catcher_ for a criminal. Situational irony is not my thing.” There was a pause, “You know well for a fact that the National Park’s pond never freezes during the winter.”

Frank let out a sigh, amused, “You are those kind of person who would search useless informations for hours if interested, yes?”

“It is not useless,” he said indignantly, “it is very helpful to know some facts about New York City’s numerous parks. One time I had that —“

“Okay, Carl,” he said, “I am not going to hear your FBI exploits, since, you know. Doesn’t really help me.”

He scowled, “What? You think I talk to you just for fun?”

“Well,” he shrugged, knowing he will not see him, “are you not?”

The line soon went dead and left Frank stared at the phone, surprised.

“Well Merry Christmas to you too, old man,” he grumbled, and poured himself some milk, “I will give you my people hunting hat because you are so damn phony.”

Then he laughed breathlessly for a few minutes, not really knowing which irony he was laughing at this time.

 

 

 

  
He didn’t really planned this, in his defense.

Not that he was a very meticulous man, of course (except for writing checks and faking diplomas, he wasn’t really any good with planning). But at least as a semi-trained criminal, he would make sure he wouldn’t end up in the bathroom, sobbing in a plane, with the added bonus of an FBI furiously banging on the door, as if he cared about any of this.

The worst thing was that he wished he cared, which make everything more of a mess than it already was.

He concentrated on his breathing, until he realized he wasn’t at all doing that. He just kept hyperventilating until he vomited, the cold plane air greeting him in response. Dead, his mind would unhelpfully supply, dead dead dead dead _dead_ —

Then proceeded the usual routine of grief: breaking glasses and wondering why the hell he was still living while his father was _dead dead dead dead and oh_ — the trail of thoughts suddenly take an ugly turn — _oh oh my god where is my mother did she know about this and why nobody told me while I was busy being caught oh yes because I didn’t listened to the news and it’s all my —_

The door broke and someone walked in, he didn’t really cared whom, he just knew by instinct that nobody should be here now and _oh god my father is_ —

He blinked, again and again, there was something wrong with him. Someone was here, and it felt _wrong wrong wrong wrong_ —

He said something and screamed something and then the other took him in his arms and it was so wrong because my father is dead and then suddenly he heard Carl and he looked up and then there was his eyes and his arms and everything was in every way wrong and stupid so he stayed. He gradually became aware of the space he was confined in— a plane’s bathroom wasn’t fit for two people. He knew this because when he brought a girl in it, he hit his head when he titled his head, trying to kiss her in that small tiny space of shit.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, no really understanding why, “ _oh my god._ ”

He realized Carl was saying something to him, he wanted to hear it, don’t get him wrong, but something was buzzing in his head and he couldn’t stop screaming and there was Carl so he closed his eyes and allowed himself to collapse.

The last thought before he drifted to exhaustion was the feeling of someone touching his hair, a comment with something along the lines about cutting it.

 _I don’t need anyone to cut my prison-style hair, I am actually going to one_ , was the retort he couldn’t say. He sure felt useless sometimes at not being able to answer to his name since there was too much of it, even he can’t tell which one he belonged to.

 

 

 

  
“You lied to me.”

“I did.” There was no guilt in it.

“I don’t need your pity, Carl.”

“I know, kid. I’m not trying to.”

His head was still on his shoulder, undried tears hanging around his face. They pretended nothing of this happened. _Okay_. The sky was green and blue and then gray, until it reached the ground. He watched this, head still on his shoulder. _Okay_.

There was a soothing hand on his. He closed his eyes. 

 

 

 

 

“Look,,” he said, “don’t want to be all patronizing to you, Carl, but you really don’t need to do this anymore.”

Carl’s face was rigid, maybe because of the mirror that separated them, “What if I want to?”

“Then I’m not going to let you do it,” he uttered, then seeing the hurt in his eyes, sighed, “sorry. I don’t mean it that way.”

“Sure,” he said, “it’s okay.”

The thing was, without being sure of any objective truth, he can tell any lies. Yet Carl deserved truths, deserved trust. So he shut his mouth and try to remember who he was.

When he saw the forged check and the hopeful eyes of the inspector, he thought that was maybe who he will be, then.

Scary when he found out that he didn’t really mind.

 

 

 

 

He is all that he got _,_ he realized one day, during a sunny day in the FBI department, coffee in his hand. _He’s all that I got._

His coffee splattered in pieces on the floor, earning some annoyed eyes from his coworkers. His hands, covered in coffee stains, felt cold.

He looked at Carl’s office, his table as messy as always, and his eyes focused on whatever case he was working on. At the sound, he lifted his gaze at Frank. He startled, and quickly lowered himself to take the mug pieces in his hand. Still cold.

 _He’s all that I got_ , his mind repeated again and again that afternoon uselessly, while his heart unhelpfully whispered, _I am all that he got too._

 

 

 

 

“Kid, are you ready?” He asked before their first mission, “I assume you always are, flying a plane without a training and all.”

“Oh my god, stop that,” he chuckled, “and please, mister Hanratty, just call me Frank.”

“Okay,” he said, and put his hat on Frank’s head, “okay, Frank.”

 _Okay_ , he answered inwardly. The hat hid the sunlight, but he still felt like crying. _Okay_.

 

 


End file.
